Help For Hoskins
by Lord Kristine
Summary: This is a reflection on the life of Vic Hoskins.
1. Forethoughts

Tonight is Poker Night, and Vic Hoskins is attending. Oh, he's not _playing_ the game: he's simply baking cookies for those who are. Now, anyone who knows the name "Vic Hoskins" would normally do a double-take after hearing that he was baking _anything_ , much less a tray of delicious snickerdoodles, but those people didn't know him after he attended sensitivity courses . . . after he became a dinosaur. Through a series of confusing, convoluted, and complex events, he ended up as a hybrid animal, something that happened surprisingly often where he lived. It's always hard to explain his situation, but at least he no longer has cyborg gun-arms to complicate the issue.

In any case, he is distributing his sugary creations to a group of very strange people. Some are raptors, and others are pale not-quite-dinosaurs. Vic is nervous around them, not just because he's a herbivore, but because he doesn't enjoy thinking about what had caused them to change in the first place.

"Hey, Hoskins! You wanna join in?"

Vic wags his tail excitedly at the prospect of being included, but after a beat, he shakes his head.

"Can't. I promised to be home by eight."

The dinosaurs laugh. One of the pale hybrids cackles hysterically, slapping the table with his paw.

"Oh, that's good! _Hilarious_! Does your wife have you by the balls?"

Vic shakes his head.

"No, but just the same, I'd like to keep my promise."

There's another chorus of laughter.

"I tell you, if _I_ were married to someone with a mug like that, I'd reconsider."

"HEY!"

Vic stomps his foot and glowers at the dinosaur who made the remark, but his face softens in a millisecond. His heart quivers with fear as he realizes just how close he came to snapping. He places his tail between his legs and lowers his gaze.

"Sorry. But you _know_ that she's beautiful."

" _Used to_ be beautiful."

"Still is," Vic states without a hint of insincerity.

The dinosaur shrugs.

"Well, I can't complain about your taste. Still, if she ever changes back, give me a call."

A second dinosaur snorts.

"Craig, you couldn't land a girl who looks like a trout, never mind someone like her. Besides, she'd stay with Hoskins."

"Doubt it."

"She would."

"I really don't think so."

They turn to Vic. He places his hands behind his back shyly and scuffs his toe against the floor.

"She'd stay. She loves me, even though she has no reason to."

"But if she was pretty again . . ."

"She's still pretty."

"If she changed, I mean. What would happen, do you think?"

"She'd stay," Vic affirms, "I _know_ she would."

"I don't think so," the dinosaur snuffs, "She could nab nearly any man on the island. Why would she choose _you_?"

Vic doesn't argue this point. He knows that the dinosaur is right, even if he would prefer the answer to be different. She really has no reason to stay with him, except love. Love and desperation. If anyone else wanted her (which they damn well should), it was very much possible that she'd go after them instead. Vic tries to tell himself that it would be good for her if this were to happen, and that he should be ready to support her decision, but that doesn't stop his heart from breaking at the mere thought of losing her. Obviously, his fear is showing, because the dinosaur coughs awkwardly and looks away.

"I was only teasing, Hoskins. I'm sure she'd stay."

He sighs.

"No, you're right. If someone else came along-"

"She'd stay with you," the dinosaur affirms, "I've seen the way she looks at you. She adores you, and it's not our place to judge."

"Do you think she only loves me because I love her?" Vic asks.

The dinosaur gives a noncommittal hum. Vic sighs and sits down on a sofa in the corner of the room. With an exhausted groan, he leans backwards and looks at the ceiling.

"God, what am I doing? She's miserable, isn't she?"

One of the dinosaurs shakes his head.

"No, no. Definitely not. Whenever you're together, she gets about thirty-three percent happier."

Vic rubs his forehead.

"But she'd be happier with someone else."

"Why?"

"Because I'm _me_ , and nobody likes me."

None of the dinosaurs contradict him. Vic exhales and stands up.

"I'm going home. Enjoy your cookies."

It's a long walk back to the house. Vic has about eighteen minutes to ponder what has been said. He accomplishes very little in that time. He's stuck in a loop of self-loathing. Many times, he comes to the conclusion that everyone would be happier if he left his wife. Well, everyone except him, but he didn't matter. Of course, it would be heartbreaking for her at the start, but she'd find someone else. Statistically speaking, she can't do much worse than Vic.

When he finally drags himself through the front door, Vic notices that all of the lights are turned off. Recovering from the cold night air, he stretches out his legs and heads for the bedroom. His wife is already asleep. He smiles at the sight of her, then slips under the covers, hoping to go unnoticed. Instinctively, she wraps her wings around him, and her brow becomes furrowed, even in her half-dormant state.

"You're cold . . ."

"I've been outside."

"Baking for the poker group?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"You smell like cookies."

Vic smiles and snuggles closer to her. After a second, he bites his lip. He shouldn't be happy. Why is he letting himself be happy when he's making someone he loves miserable?

"They've been teasing you . . ." she whispers.

Vic gulps.

"I . . . um . . . Yes, they have. It's fine, though. I'm used to it."

"It's bothering you. I can tell. You're really quiet. I can feel you thinking."

Vic hugs his knees against his chest.

"It's no big deal. I deserve it. It's only fair."

With this, his wife opens her eyes and sits up in bed.

"Vic, no. Don't say that. You don't deserve this abuse."

"I do . . ."

She scoffs.

"Look, it doesn't matter what you've done. They shouldn't expect you to just sit there and take it. Part of forgiving someone is understanding that reciprocal hatred doesn't make anything better. Here you are, trying to do something nice for them, and they treat you like rubbish! If I got my talons on them-"

Vic shakes his head.

"Don't be upset. If you're concerned, I won't go over there anymore."

She sighs.

"Well, it's not about how _I_ feel. Are you really going to let them treat you that way?"

"Yes . . ."

"But _why_?"

Vic closes his eyes.

"With all the people I've hurt, hateful words are far less damaging than what I actually deserve."


	2. Adulthood

'SCREEEEEEEEE!'

Vic stares down at four raptors from a catwalk above their pen. Although his face shows a neutral expression, his mind is whirring excitedly. These animals are the solution to a very big problem. If he can only convince Grady to see things his way, this could be the first step towards a new age of warfare. But he wouldn't agree to it. He'd claim that the animals aren't ready yet. If Vic can catch him in a moment of weakness, however, he might be able to persuade him.

At the precise moment this thought crosses his mind, a silver car pulls up to the raptor enclosure. Dearing! Of course! That's his weak spot. He's been after her for god knows how many weeks, and if his mind is lingering on romance, the raptors will fade into the background, thus giving Vic a chance to test their skills.

Vic's excitement fizzles away when the driver exits her vehicle. It's not Dearing, but rather, a dark-haired woman. She slams the door shut and makes her way over to Grady, who is chatting with Barry. When he catches sight of the woman, he seems troubled. Nevertheless, he leaves his companion and greets her. Vic leans in, anxious to hear what they're saying.

" . . . Mr. Grady, I'm afraid . . . has asked me to tell you . . . restraining order . . . pretty sure she's joking . . . shouldn't come back . . . don't care . . . deluded . . . true love . . . just a stalker."

Vic prowls across the catwalk, then creeps down the stairs. The voices become sharper as he draws near.

"I'm sorry. She's made up her mind."

"But she's wrong!" Grady spits.

"Don't yell at _me_ ," she snaps, "I'm only the messenger."

"Please. I'm not asking for much," Grady mutters humbly, "I just want a second chance."

"That's not up to you."

He gulps.

"Can't Claire come and talk to me personally?"

"She's very busy, and so am I. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

As Vic rounds the corner, he nearly bumps into Dearing's assistant. She gives him a pleasant smile as he walks by, but he hardly notices it. He's more concerned with Grady, who is looking rather distraught. For Vic's purposes, distraught equals opportunity.

Grady is so furious that he kicks up dust as he walks. Vic follows him to a special part of the enclosure, and is surprised to see that he's facing a raptor through a set of bars. The animal churrs and looks at him innocently.

"You know, I think I like you more than Claire," he grumbles, "At least you're honest about your emotions. You let me know how you feel instead of sending someone else to do your dirty work. You'd never betray me like this. I can trust you, and that's more than I can say for most people I know."

The raptor chirps. Slowly, Grady lifts his arm. Vic's jaw drops. He's about to stick his hand through the bars, the crazy bastard! The raptor is just standing there, probably waiting to maul him. It even leans forward a little bit as he draws near. But then it catches sight of Vic. The raptor peeks over the Alpha's shoulder and growls. He frowns in confusion, but when the raptor hisses at Vic, he realizes that they are not alone. Grady turns around with a casual air, as if he had not been about to stick his hand in front of a ferocious beast.

"What do you want, Hoskins?"

"I'm just here to see how much progress you've made."

Grady exhales sharply.

"None. It's hopeless."

Vic smirks.

"Now, I know that's not true. You had that raptor under control just now."

Grady shakes his head emphatically.

"I didn't. No one can control a raptor."

"Not yet, you mean."

"Not ever."

Vic laughs and walks around him in a circle.

"You're just being humble. That's fine: I can wait. But these are intelligent animals, and if you can get them to follow orders-"

"Forget it," Grady whispers dangerously, "You don't know what you're messing with."

A shrill scream from the cage makes them wheel around. Two of the raptors are fighting. Grady gasps and makes a dash for the catwalk.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

Vic follows him, but at a slower pace. When he reaches his authoritative perch, Grady slams his hand on the railing and addresses his animals in a clear voice.

"Blue! Echo! No!"

The striped raptor glances at him, but continues to attack the dappled one.

"I mean it! Let her go!" he barks.

The raptors don't stop. They clash in a frenzy of claws and teeth, roaring and hissing at each other in primal rage. Finally, the raptor with the blue stripe claws the opponent's snout, and it retreats with a painful howl. Grady curses and rushes down the metal stairs, making them rattle. He meets the injured raptor by the bars. At first, it hisses at him, but he slows down and holds out his hand as he approaches it.

"Easy. Easy, girl. I'm just trying to help you."

The raptor gives a little whine. Grady looks at it sadly.

"It's okay, Echo. It's okay. We'll get you fixed up. Just stay calm, alright? Can you do that?"

The raptor churrs, but it proceeds to glance at Vic anxiously. Grady looks over his shoulder and scowls.

"Can we get a little privacy, please?"

Vic chuckles and strolls over to another gate, where Barry has caught the victorious raptor. It fights the rope that loops its neck (probably only a temporary leash) and growls.

"That's what you get for picking fights," Barry sighs, "You gave poor Echo some deep gashes, you know . . ."

Vic marches forward and claps his hands.

"Well done. She's strong, this one."

Barry scowls.

"Strength isn't everything."

Vic shoots him a lopsided grin.

"It is if you want to survive. This one is Blue, correct?"

"Only her stripe."

Vic narrows his eyes, but Grady soon jogs over to them with a consternated frown.

"Echo's alright. She's bleeding, but not much."

Barry sighs.

"That's good. Blue is secu-"

The raptor tugs so hard that the rope snaps. Barry blinks.

"Laissez tomber."

The raptor pokes its snout between the bars. Grady ignores it.

"Should we keep them separate for a while?" he asks.

"Probably not. She'll just get agitated," Barry mutters.

The raptor chirps. It seems desperate for Grady's approval. He doesn't acknowledge the obvious cry for attention.

"What if she tries something?" he persists.

"She won't," Barry declares, "Echo's learned her lesson, and Blue knows it."

Again, the raptor tries to get the Alpha's attention. It makes a loud noise that is frightening enough to make Vic flinch. Finally, Grady turns to the beast, stares at it for a second, and frowns.

"You don't hurt family, Blue."

As he storms away angrily, the raptor cocks its head and makes a quiet chirping sound. Vic laughs heartily.

"I don't know what he's worried about. If _I_ owned an animal as ferocious as this one, I'd make sure to feed it extra."

Barry shakes his head.

"You just don't get it, man."

"What's to get?" Vic scoffs, "The strong survive. Everyone else is just a chew-toy. Isn't that right, Blue?"

Even though he knows that he's talking to an animal, Vic can't help but interpret her scowl as being directed at him personally.


	3. Manhood

More than anything, Vic wants his wife to shut the hell up. It might sound like an unnecessarily cruel thing to say, perhaps even downright evil, but anyone who might interpret his situation as such has never met the demon known as Mabel Hoskins. She's mentally ill: Vic is sure of it. She's always yammering on and on about menial things like jam and flour, and she cleans the house compulsively. At first, Vic wasn't bothered by this, because he basically got a free housekeeper whom he could take to bed once in a while, but lately, he hasn't been getting those benefits, and her voice is drilling into his soul like a robotic woodpecker. Vic has always thought that sound is important, both in a relationship and in other aspects of life. He's secretly a lover of music, and to be married to someone with such a hideous voice is more than he can bear. He'd rather listen to nails on a chalkboard. At least the nails wouldn't criticize him for no good reason.

Vic sometimes lets his anger get the best of him. He's lost his temper once or twice. Nothing serious, of course, but enough to make the neighbors wonder what's going on in his household. When Mabel showed up to church with a black eye a few weeks ago, people started talking. They sympathized with _her_ , of course, and didn't bother listening to Vic's side of the story. He actually hadn't meant to do it . . . Well, okay, he meant to hit her, but he didn't mean for her to get a black eye. Now everyone thinks he's some sort of psychopath, but honestly, if they had to live with Mabel, they'd go a little crazy too. He isn't even sure why he married her in the first place. He certainly doesn't love her. Maybe he just got desperate. Yeah, that makes sense. Around the time they got engaged, Vic was at a low point in his life. Practically no women were interested in him, yet Mabel clung to him like a burr. She seemed like a devoted girlfriend at the time, but now, he is ready to shake her off. How, though? He can't ask for a divorce. She'd get half of what little wealth they have. Murder her? No, that would never work. He'd most definitely get caught, and it isn't worth the effort. Then again, the lake near their house is pretty deep . . .

"VIC!"

He cringes as she yells at him from the kitchen. He wants to ignore her, but he knows that it won't be enough to make her go away.

"VIC, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!"

He storms into the kitchen, rattling the framework of the house with his footsteps.

"What do you want?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"You didn't put the bread away last night."

 _Christ, is that all?_ _The woman is absolutely insane!_

Vic exhales and tries to compose himself.

"I forgot."

She waves a wooden spoon at him angrily.

"Them mice got in and started eatin' it. They gnawed at the crackers in the cupboard, too. Now we got a vermin problem. How do you suggest we get rid of 'em? We can't afford no extermination man!"

"Plautus will get them."

She tosses the spoon to the side and waggles her finger instead.

"That's another thing. I don't want that damned wolf in the house no more. It's dangerous."

"It- _he_ is perfectly safe," Vic mutters, "You're being paranoid."

"Am I, Vic? That thing's been looking at me funny, and it growls whenever I walk by."

"He just doesn't like you."

"So keep it tied up."

"No."

"Are you saying that you care about that damn dog more than me?"

Yes. That's exactly what he's saying. But he doesn't tell her how right she is. This situation is already far too sensitive, and provoking her will only make it worse. Maybe he can appease her for now. He'll give her an insincere compliment, and she'll shut up. Hopefully. But he's probably not that lucky. It's worth a shot, anyway.

"Mabel . . . I think you're . . ."

Wait, what is he _doing_? He can't resort to this bullshit now! What kind of a man would he be if he were to put her feelings above his pride? She is nothing. If he gives in now, that would make him _less_ than nothing. It's basic math, just like two times eight equals . . . Well, it's still basic math! This whole situation is humiliating! Emasculating, even! Vic is so much better than his pathetic excuse of a wife. This whole marriage is a sham. They can't work through this. It's hopeless! Vic couldn't bring himself to love Mabel if they were the last two people on Earth. She's the least lovable person in the history of mankind. There's only one solution.

"I want a divorce," he declares.

Mabel turns around slowly. As she does, she lets go of her apron, which she had been twisting anxiously.

"What?"

"I want a divorce," Vic repeats, "And I'm getting the truck."

Mabel's face pulls into a hideous scowl. Vic can practically feel the rage emanating from her in sickening waves.

"You bastard! Is that all you have to say after ten years?! You can't leave me! Not like this! Bastard! _Bastard_!"

"You knew this was coming-"

"Bullshit! That's absolute bullshit! You can't do this, Vic! I won't let you!"

He scoffs and puts his hands on his hips.

"You won't let me? Tell me, Mabel: what are you gonna do to stop me?"

She gnashes her teeth.

"I'll kill you! I'll _kill_ you!"

And that's when she reaches for the steak knife.


	4. Youth

Unfortunately, Vic isn't very good at hunting. Truth be told, he's not good at a lot of things, but it irks him that he's bad at hunting specifically because it's a valuable skill. In a small, rural town, it's hard to find a decent way to pass the time, especially since so much land belongs to grumpy old men who are perfectly okay with shooting trespassers. Hunting is the only suitable recreational activity, and Vic is terrible at it. He may as well be bad at breathing.

To say that his ineptitude is humiliating would be an understatement. He _needs_ to be good at hunting in order to compensate for certain shortcomings . . . such as not being able to define ineptitude in the first place. No, being the simple creature he is, Vic has come up with a term that perfectly diagnoses his inability to succeed: screwup. He's not a screwup in the sense of being clumsy or oafish or dimwitted (though he also demonstrates these qualities), but rather, his screwupness shines through whenever he tries to do something nice. If he helps an old lady cross the street, she'll trip over his boot; if he tries to help someone pick up something they've dropped, he'll accidentally knock it into the sewer. These kinds of events happen so frequently that Vic is convinced that a higher power is dead set on making him look like an asshole. It would be unwise to help anyone today for this very reason. If Vic tries to do something nice during a hunting trip . . . well . . . a mistake is one thing, but a mistake involving a gun could be the end of him. Or someone else.

Vic is hunting with a few of his friends, as a point of fact. Maybe "friends" is too strong of a word. They're more like people he spends time with when he knows that he's going to be doing something that requires a vehicle of some kind. Vic doesn't own a car, of course, so it's nice to have that option available to him.

By now, he's spent enough time with the group that his contributions are at least on par with the burden of dragging him along, so he's free to go exploring on his own. He creeps through the forest slowly, keeping his eyes open for a deer or a bird or anything with a pulse. A shrill whimpering sound catches his attention. At first, he thinks that it's a bird, but when he sees something small and fluffy caught in a bear trap, he realizes that it's quite the opposite.

As he draws near, Vic hypothesizes that the animal is a very large coyote. In reality, it's a very small wolf. Its pelt is grey, or at least that's what it looks like from afar. The animal's fur is actually yellowish-white, but a collection of black ticks creates the illusion of grayness from a distance. The softer fur on its belly is ivory-colored, but it's hard to tell because it's stained with blood. If Vic were to guess, he'd say that the pup is rather young. He doesn't know much about wolves, but it's probably not likely that this infant is going to survive if he walks away now.

For reasons that Vic himself can't explain, he fiddles with the trap and sets the wolf free. It doesn't move much, of course, because its legs seem kind of messed up. Vic picks up the shivering wolf and wraps it in his coat. He tells himself that he'll let the pup go if it gives him any trouble, but it doesn't so much as nip at his fingers.

They make it all the way back to the truck, where Vic's friends are waiting. They aren't keen to bring a wild animal into town, but Vic promises to take care of everything on his own. The driver is worried that he'll stain the seats with blood, but Vic assures him that he'll be careful. They cruise through the mountains and drop him off at the hospital, because there's no veterinary clinic nearby. The doctors are surprised to see a wolf on their operating table, but the community is so small that weirder things have happened, and they agree to fix up the little tyke.

After a few weeks of gradual recovery, the wolf pup finds a home with Vic. He lives in the same house as the butcher, who agreed to provide housing in exchange for labour a few years back. This is a problem, because Vic can't bring the pup to the shop, where he spends half of his time. Wolves are carnivorous, after all, and having one in close proximity to raw meat is probably not a good idea. Vic is therefore forced to tie up his pet and leave him at home. Every day, when he gets back from work, the pup tugs at its leash excitedly. The poor animal loves Vic more than anyone has ever loved him for years. To be honest, it feels kind of nice to know that someone cares about him, even if that someone is an animal.

When winter comes, things get complicated. Vic can no longer leave his wolf tied up outside. He is forced to bring him to the butcher shop. Luckily, his boss is understanding. He apparently owned a bloodhound when he was a boy. Vic doesn't care about his life story, but he's willing to listen as long as his own friend is by his side.

Huh . . . friend . . .

It's true: Vic has a friend now. Someone actually cares whether he lives or dies. Someone is willing to put up with his spurts of anger. Someone likes him for who he is, without asking that he change or put more effort into their relationship. Vic has a friend, and that means that someone likes him.

Truth be told, he likes his friend back.


	5. Adolescence

What is the difference between a nightmare and a night terror? Vic doesn't know, but whichever one is worse, that's what he's been having for the last few months. His foster parents don't know what to do with him when he has these episodes. The doctor advised them to let him sleep through his bad dreams, but it's hard to ignore him when he screams in the middle of the night. If this is in response to the trauma he experienced, it's extremely delayed. It's somewhat inconvenient that it's come at a time when he's ready to grow up, because he regresses to the age of six whenever he falls asleep. He's wet the bed enough times to warrant the use of an absorbent blanket beneath his covers. Almost every night, he has to do the _walk of shame_. He knocks on his foster parents' door, and one of them slides out of bed and opens it, staring blankly ahead with an exhausted expression. Vic will then follow whomever got stuck with laundry duty that particular night as they lumber across the house. They'll drag the damp covers to the laundry room, just so that they're out of the way. They have spares on standby. After a few minutes, they'll realize that Vic is hovering around idly and tell him to shower off, and he'll waddle into the bathroom with a new pair of pajamas in his arms. No matter how quickly he tries to bathe himself, by the time he's out of the shower, his bed is already made, and the foster parent of the night is gone. He always hurries because he secretly hopes to catch them before they fall asleep again, so that they'll see how frightened he is and maybe, just maybe, sit by his bed as he falls asleep.

But it never happens that way.

Vic is well aware that this is a new portion of his life, and he can never truly go back to what he had before. The one person who loved him is gone, and she's never coming back. His new guardians have tried to be sympathetic, but they have trouble dealing with him when he causes trouble, especially if that trouble is school-related. He's hit certain classmates before, and he'll probably do it again. He knows that it's wrong, but he can't help himself. Aside from expressing his anger, violence gets him attention: something he desperately needs. It's funny: as much as he sends all of these signals to his foster parents, he can never muster up the courage to talk to them directly. Even if he did, they probably wouldn't care. They don't like him as a person, and they certainly don't love him like a son.

During one of his lonelier nights, Vic finds that he can't get to sleep. His new covers are clean and smell like flowers, and his pajamas are warm from sitting beside the heater, but he's still wide awake. He stares into the grainy darkness of his room, barely blinking.

Gradually, he starts to whimper. He hugs his knees and squeezes his eyes shut as his body shakes uncontrollably. That's when the sobbing begins. It's a pathetic, helpless sound. He's as defenseless as a child who has become lost in the woods. Although he is warm and safe, he feels cold and alone. Slowly, he slides out of the covers and perches himself by the window. He presses his palms together and rests his forehead on his fingers as he kneels on the bed. With a shaky breath, he begins to pray.

"Please . . . If you can hear me, let me know that you care. I know I haven't been good at school, but I'm trying. Honest, I am. It's just so _hard_ . . ."

He chokes a little.

"I know Joanne and Barnaby are trying to be good parents, but I don't think it's going to work out. I need someone to take care of me: someone who really and truly loves the person I am . . . just like my mother. Everyone keeps telling me that it's all part of your plan . . . that you took her away for a reason. If that's true, I need to know why you did it. I need you to tell me why you made it so we have to be apart. _Please_. If you have a reason, I'd like to hear it now. I need to know that you haven't forgotten me. I need to know that you're on my side."

Vic waits.

And then he waits some more.

He waits long enough to receive a reply, and then some.

No one answers.

With a frustrated growl, Vic grabs his pillow and tosses it across the room. It bounces off of his dresser and causes a picture frame to fall face down. Immediately, he springs out of bed and runs over to it. When he lifts it up, he squeaks in distress. There's a crack in the glass.

Vic removes the photo as tenderly as possible and holds it in his hands. He starts crying all over again, but he keeps his eyes open this time. He's trying as hard as he can to travel back in time. He wants to remember what it was like . . . how he used to live back when the photo was taken. He wants to remember what he was thinking about as he posed for the picture, what it felt like to smile like that. He wants to remember that red farmhouse with the white picket fence and those silly geese waddling down the dirt path. He wants to remember the clouds and the butterflies and the hum of insects in the cornfield. More than anything, he wants to remember what it felt like to be in his mother's arms. He stares at her smiling face, and for a moment, it feels like she's still with him. But when that moment is over, he's left with nothing: not even a single kind word from the last person he could have turned to.

And that's when he knows for sure that his mother is never coming back, and that he will never be loved by anyone else for as long as he lives.


	6. Childhood

Vic loves it when his mother bakes. It makes the house all cozy and warm, and the alluring smell of snickerdoodles is rather comforting in the cold, dry winter. Vic can see them in the oven now. He sits and stares at the tray like most children would stare at a television set. He enjoys watching the dough rise in the warm, orange light. It's like a special kind of magic.

He helped his mother bake this particular batch of cookies. It's oodles of fun, because she lets him lick the beaters and nibble on the dough that's left over. Perhaps that's why he's a little pudgy, but he doesn't particularly care about his appearance. Cookies take precedence over everything else.

"How are they coming, buckaroo?"

Vic turns around and grins at his mother, who has finished washing the flour off of her hands.

"I think they're almost done."

His mother bends down and scoops him up in her arms.

"Is that right?"

She tickles him, and he thrashes around joyously, giggling with glee. When she puts him down, he gives her a hug.

"Tell me a story while we wait."

She gives a musical laugh.

"Vic, I think I've told you all the stories I know."

"Then tell me one I've heard before!" Vic insists.

"Oh, you don't want _that_ ," she chuckles, "I'll bore you to death."

Vic jumps up and down excitedly.

"You won't bore me! Tell me a story! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!"

She smiles and shakes her head.

"Oh, you little rascal. Haven't you had enough stories yet?"

"Never!" Vic declares with the most severe sincerity he's ever displayed.

His mother smiles and leans against the counter.

"Alright. Here we go. Once upon a time, there was a brave knight named Vic. He traveled across the land on a mighty steed and rescued damsels in distress."

"From dragons?"

"Dragons, ogres, and all sorts of monsters," she says dramatically, "One day, he traveled to a deep, dark cave, where a ferocious dragon was guarding a beautiful princess. It was a scary place-"

"But Vic wasn't scared!"

"No, he wasn't. He marched right up to the dragon and said, 'Hey, you! Let that poor princess go!'. The dragon growled angrily, and Vic pulled out his sword. As the beast snapped at him, he-"

"Vic isn't going to hurt the dragon, is he?" he asks with concern.

"No, of course not. He just scares him away."

Vic sighs with relief.

"Oh, good."

His mother clears her throat.

"Anyway, once the dragon was gone, the princess ran up to Vic and gave him a kiss."

"Ew."

"You don't like that?"

Vic shakes his head.

"No. Kissing is yucky."

"It's not yucky when it's true love," his mother coos.

" _Was_ it true love?"

His mother nods.

"Absolutely. Vic and the princess got married later that day, and they moved into a big castle-"

"Treehouse."

She quirks a brow.

"How are they supposed to live in a treehouse?"

"It's a big treehouse," Vic says simply.

"Alright, well, they moved into a big treehouse and had lots of kids and lived happily ever after. The end."

Vic cocks his head.

"Do you think that could ever happen in real life?"

"What do you mean?"

Vic scuffs his toe on the kitchen floor shyly.

"Will I be able to do those things?"

His mother smiles and ruffles his hair.

"Sure, you will. It might be hard to find a dragon, but I'm sure you'll meet a princess eventually. You might even be able to buy a treehouse if you save up."

Vic thinks about the five quarters in his piggy bank. How many coins would a treehouse cost, anyway? He'll have to find a really fancy one with enough rooms for his eventual children. It's hard to believe that he'll ever be old enough to have a family. Or brave enough to fight a dragon, for that matter.

"Will the princess be nice?" Vic asks.

"Mhm. She'll be kind and gentle, and probably very pretty. You don't have to kiss her if you think it's yucky."

Vic shrugs.

"Well, if I really love her, I guess there's no harm in giving her a kiss or two."

His mother laughs.

"You're funny, Vic. You know that?"

"I'm being serious!" he protests.

"I know, I know. But don't forget the most important thing . . ."

Vic scratches his head.

"What's that?"

His mother reaches for the oven mitts.

"Cookies!"

As she's pulling the tray out of the oven, there's a loud knock at the door. She's so startled by the noise that she drops the cookies. Before Vic can express his discontentment, his mother grabs his shoulder and pushes him into the cupboard.

"Stay in here no matter what. Don't come out, and keep quiet."

Vic doesn't know what's going on, but the fear in her voice is enough to convince him that they're in danger. He does as he's told, but when she closes the door, he gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wants to ask her why she isn't hiding with him. If the visitor poses a threat, she shouldn't be putting herself in harm's way. Vic wants her to be safe, and if neither of them are safe, he'd like them to be together, at least.

When the stranger enters the house, he starts shouting very loudly. Vic shrinks back in the darkness, utterly terrified. His mother says something in a pleading tone of voice, then screams. Vic peeks under the door as the stranger drags his mother into the kitchen by her hair. He gasps in terror as the man throws her to the floor violently. She gets up, but the man grabs her collar and slaps her with his free hand. It takes all of Vic's strength to keep himself from making a sound. He wants to run out of the cupboard and help her, but she told him to stay hidden, and he can't disobey her.

Vic watches in agony as his mother is beaten by the stranger. There comes a point when she's too weak to stand. She lies facedown for a moment, then pushes herself up with her hands. Vic whimpers when he sees that her face is bruised and bleeding. The man steps forward slowly and spits on her. She winces.

Everything is about to change. Vic can feel it coming. He will always wonder if he could have stopped it somehow. He knew that something awful was about to happen. He _knew_. He knew even before the man pulled out his shotgun.

Vic is petrified. He wants to close his eyes, but he can't. He is forced to watch as the man presses the muzzle against his mother's forehead.

And then he pulls the trigger.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

 **The End**


End file.
